Charge of the Light Brigade
by Darling Summers
Summary: "Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred." A story of another generation in the Society. SybilxGeorge
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:**_ This is a post for Project PULL, as set up by Bookaholic711, in which you post a piece of at least 1,000 words in length, every Friday fortnight. Dedicated to the reviewers of 'Daisies'- t97, Mbali97, As If You Cared, Loony-1995 and Angelmail :)

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_**Charge of the Light Brigade**_

The distant wail of a siren, followed by a series of muted explosions, permeated the thick walls of the Masterson's farmhouse, and Lavinia Clamworthy winced.

"I hope they're staying clear of the houses," she voiced her thoughts aloud. Hescombe had been evacuated in favour of using it as an army training base, due to its close proximity to the sea and a coastline that closely resembled that of the Normandy beaches where they were planning to invade. Many of the town's inhabitants had been scattered across England, and in some cases, Ireland, in the relocation that followed, but the Mastersons offered the use of their farm to house the Society members in the near vicinity. It was imperative that, in these times, the Society stuck together.

John Clamworthy, Lavinia's husband, took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Many people had made haste in their marriages with the threat of the war looming over them.

"It's okay, pet. They're sure to compensate for any damage-" Lavinia blanched, and he hurriedly corrected himself, "-but our house is so far from the beach that nothing could happen." Their eight-month-old son, Mack, who was entertaining himself with an abandoned shopping bag, gurgled in amusement at his mother's distress over their house.

"I don't know if there'll be anything left of poor old Shaker Row, once they're done with it," Sybil Brewer lamented, reaching across the table to retrieve the patterned blue and white china sugar bowl. "It's quite a pity. That house has been in the family for generations."

"There's always Lionheart Lodge," George reminded her gently, and Sybil made a face.

"Ugh. I always loved to visit Aunt Suzanna, but there's always been something a bit creepy about that house. It's so lonely- just out in the middle of nowhere."

"I know what you mean, Syb," Godiva, her younger sister, vehemently agreed. "It's like one of those creepy old mansions in horror stories- all those winding staircases and huge, draughty bedrooms. I always expected a dragon to leap out of the closet, or something." Francis Brock, who had been sitting in an armchair by the range, feigning sleep, opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow in mock disapproval.

"And what, exactly, is wrong with dragons, Iva?" he teased, and she rolled her eyes.

"Oh, it wasn't the dragons I was scared of. I was just terrified that a certain, extremely infuriating dragon companion would come out after it, and irritate me to no end until I agreed to go out with him." Sybil held back a laugh at Godiva's audacity, but George had no such reserves. He let out a roar of laughter and clapped his sister in law on the back.

"Nice one, Iva! You've got the right idea- keep that one in his place!" Sybil placed a hand on George's arm and a heavy sense of melancholy crept past her defences. It was moments like this that she would miss when he was gone- laughing together, with their friends gathered around them, without a care in the world. That carefree atmosphere, for her, at least, had drained from the room with this realization.

"George, I'm feeling quite tired. I'm going to go to bed," she murmured into his ear, leaning in towards him. He took in her expression, and gave her a concerned, questioning look, but she shook her head quietly. "Later," she whispered. George pushed back his chair from the table, and took her by the hand.

"Right, we're going to take our leave now. Long day tomorrow," he announced. "Goodnight, everyone." These pleasantries dealt with, he led her up the stairs to the bedroom that they had been assigned. It was sparsely decorated, but Sybil had furnished every available surface with the numerous silver photo frames she collected, each containing a golden snapshot of the time they had together.

A million of these photographs couldn't buy her another year with him; that much was certain.

George closed the door behind them and took a seat on the bed beside her, the metal springs giving a creak of protest with the added burden of weight.

"Now, Syb," he said softly, rubbing circles on the exposed skin of her arm. "What's wrong?" She struggled to hold back the flood of tears rising inside her. "You can tell me anything- you know that." A single tear fell from her eye and slid down her cheek, and he pulled her into a hug. That did it- the tears flowed freely from her eyes in loud, wracking sobs.

"What am I going to do without you?" she managed to get out through her tears. "Why can't you stay with me forever?" With her head on his chest, she could not see his expression, but she felt him sigh.

"I wish I could, darling," he whispered. "I really wish I could. But I'm doing this to protect you- to protect the family we're going to have." His gaze fell to the gentle curve of her stomach. "It's for the two of you I'm doing it." Sybil turned her face towards him, and their eyes met.

"I'll miss you," she said quietly as he wiped the tears from her eyes. "You'd better come back safely."

"You can count on that," he promised, before pulling a box out from underneath the bed. "Here- I got these for you. I was going to give them to you for our anniversary, but…" He trailed off. "Just open it." Sybil pulled open the ribbon with trembling hands, and lifted the lid from the large white box, and gasped.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, running a careful finger across the powerful muscles carved into the bronze bear that lay on a bed of starched white chiffon. "A Great Bear- your companion."

"Take it out of the box- there's something under it," he told her, and she did as he instructed, lifting the bear as if it had been made of fragile glass rather than heavy bronze and placing it on the chest of drawers. Underneath the layers of white lay a second figurine- a creamy marble sculpture of her own companion, the white horse of the waves, each froth of foam lovingly crafted into place. George guided her hands to the underside of the statue. There, engraved in the stone in a slanting, curved script, were the simple words;

_My darling Sybil,_

_Always._

_All my love,_

_George._

Another tear fell and landed on the white marble, but slid off the polished surface. She placed it beside the bear on the chest of drawers- she would never separate the two.

Sybil held her husband at arm's length, committing every detail to memory, before enclosing him in a tight hug.

"Be safe," she whispered. "I wish that you didn't have to go." Her dark, abundant, flyaway hair was charged with static, and strands of it clung to George's jumper, as if they were trying to prevent him from leaving.

Farewells were being said all over England, with the arrival of the dreaded call-up papers on young men's doorsteps, but nothing could be compared to the parting of Sybil Lionheart and George Brewer.

In the tiny, unremarkable harbour town of Hescombe, a completely different war was being fought.

_**A/N: I'm pondering as to whether or not to continue this- drop off a review to help me to decide, please?**_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Part of Project Pull- 1000 words, Friday fortnight, Bookaholic711- you know the drill :) Dedicated to qwertyuiopas, Kateyx, KissMyEyesAndLayMeToSleep, Angelmail, Mbali97 and GreatWolf Fanatic for their wonderful reviews :) Thanks, guys! :D

_**Chapter Two**_

The fire behind the mottled cast-iron grate spat out flames of tongues merrily, bathing the room in a warm, easy glow of light and warmth. The scent of a traditional full cooked breakfast, with slight undertones of burnt slipper, filled the air.

Martha Masterson, a plump, motherly woman with a sweet smile and a soft voice, was bustling around the kitchen, adjusting place settings, stirring the pot of thick porridge that bubbled on the range, and keeping a watchful eye over her son. He was eyeing the spread of food on the table, a mutinous look on his face- although he had turned the grand age of six recently, it did not prevent his mother from giving him a sharp clout on the backside with a wooden spoon whenever his fingers strayed too close.

The blue-and-white spode clock that hung above the dresser read half past ten. Nobody had gotten much sleep the previous night- insomnia had plagued the house for several past nights, as the date of departure for many companions drew closer and closer, like a lion stalking towards its prey. Slowly but surely, the days did pass, and all they could do to prolong their time together was grasp those last few evening hours of company.

Sleep eluded them until far past the midnight hour- it wasn't uncommon to come down the stairs at three in the morning to find that somebody had beaten you to the kettle. The pleasantly over-stuffed couch in the informal parlour had accommodated many nocturnal visitors, who sat in silence, nursing cups of tea until the spirals of steam evaporated, transforming their comforting beverage into a bland, lukewarm concoction of milk, water and soggy teabag. Martha always made sure that everyone knew where the cocoa was left.

The pot of porridge made a loud hissing noise as a drop of condensation fell onto the cooker, announcing the arrival of a bleary-eyed Sybil, who shuffled into the room clothed in an oversized robe, obviously George's, and bare feet tinged with blue due to the impact of the cold linoleum. Martha turned to the hook above the range where she had left a pair of slippers, and made a quiet sound of dismay. One of the slippers had fallen off the hook, and was lying on its side, curling plumes of smoke rising above it. She knocked it off hastily with a poker, where it landed into a bucket of potato peelings.

Martha picked it up, and sniffed it cautiously- the damage didn't seem to be too extensive. The cloth underneath was slightly singed, but otherwise, fairly wearable. Satisfied that it had passed inspection, she tossed both slippers, damaged and undamaged, to Sybil.

"There you are, dear- we don't want you to catch chilblains, now, do we?"

"Thank you, Martha," Sybil said, her head bent as she slipped her feet into the slippers and gave her toes a wiggle to regain feeling in them. Straightening up the dressing gown self-consciously, she took a seat at the table. "George will be down in a moment, too- he's getting dressed first." Martha nodded.

"Ah, well, I can see that you had no such qualms," she teased. Sybil blushed, falling silent, and buried her face in the thick towelling. Martha immediately wished that she hadn't said anything.

"I'm just teasing you," she reassured the young woman. "I'm sorry, dear- I should have been more considerate. I know it's hard on you." Sybil gave a sad, half-hearted chuckle, but lifted her head from where she had taken refuge. Martha inwardly noted her resemblance to a shy field mouse that she had come across a few days previously, emerging from its nest in her broom.

"I feel so silly. I know that I'm over-reacting; he's not even gone yet- why should I miss him already?" Martha dropped her wooden spoon into the porridge, where it sank slowly into the gelatinous substance, before becoming obscured completely. She pulled the younger woman into a comforting hug, and let her sob into her cardigan. Her words, slurred by her tears and further garbled by her face buried into her shoulder, the words were difficult to make out. Gently, Mrs. Masterson pushed her back into a seating position, and handed her a handkerchief.

"Now. Start from the beginning," Martha said kindly. Sybil dabbed at her eyes with the hankie, and blew her nose.

"I'm sorry, Martha. It's nothing, really- just the pregnancy hormones are getting to me. I'll be fine." Martha shook her head firmly.

"No, it's not just the pregnancy. You haven't looked yourself lately- all this week, you've been wandering around the house with a pale face and matted hair, like one of my mother's dratted banshees, God rest her soul. You can't blame that on your baby. Now, what's the matter?" Sybil choked back another sob.

"Goodness, I seem to be doing nothing but crying nowadays. I know I'm not usually like this, but…"

"But?" Martha prompted. Sybil took a deep breath, and blew her nose again.

"Sorry. It's just… well, George has been acting very… coldly, as of late. He never has any time for me- he's always finalizing the details of the route they'll take, or revising over strategies in the boardroom, or going over their plan of attack, and sometimes… well, Martha, do you ever feel like your husband just doesn't love you any more?" With that, she burst into a fresh onslaught of tears. Martha said nothing, just let her cry it out. When her subs began to subside, Martha began to speak again.

"Several times." Sybil looked up, her mismatched eyes reddened around the edges.

"Pardon?"

"I've felt that he doesn't love me several times. Oh, it's always over silly things, little fights like whose turn it is to put the cat out, that escalate into full-scale battle. But, once we make up, I know that he loves me more than anything else in the world- well, combined with his companion. And his mother, maybe." Sybil giggled, and Martha felt heartened, relieved that she had finally managed to put the bright smile back on the young woman's face.

"Well, Sybil, I know that George loves you more than anything in the world too. He's just trying to protect you." A loud clatter in the hall caused both of them to turn their heads towards the door guiltily, but upon no further noise following the sound, Martha continued. "He's going off to fight in… well, it's our equivalent of the war, dear. It's a natural instinct of men; they distance themselves from those they love the most… just in case, God forbid, worst comes to worst." Sybil flinched, but said nothing. Catching her expression, Martha rubbed her arm reassuringly. "But it's not going to happen- George is too clever, and too strong, and-"

"And too brave," Sybil added.

"And too brave," Martha conceded, "for anything like that to happen. It's an absurd way to treat your loved ones, I know, but he just doesn't want you to get hurt." Sybil smiled again- albeit a weak one, it was still a smile.

Unbeknownst to the pair, George had been standing by the crack in the door, and had overheard their entire conversation. Now that Martha had pinpointed his actions, he was able to fully realize the extent of them- and he had never felt more stupid. Distancing himself from his beloved wife was exactly what he had been doing- but he wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

They had far too few days left together to waste any of them.


End file.
